


Absolution

by Miggy



Series: The 25th President of the United States of America [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Minor Character Death, Physical Disability, Survivor Guilt, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-24
Updated: 2010-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:05:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miggy/pseuds/Miggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immediately after gunmen tore their way through the William McKinley High School cafeteria, all people could focus on was who had lived and who had died. Given time, more wounds reveal themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to The 25th President of the United States of America, the previous story in this series. That story dealt with a school shooting. As with that story, this involves discussion of death and physical injury.

"Turn that off," Burt Hummel said as a sign announced the first exit to Columbus in twenty miles. The sports anchor's hour had ended. The talk radio filling the pickup's small cab was now promising yet another debate over gun control laws in the wake of the McKinley tragedy.

Some caller from Wyoming began, "If thirteen deaths in '99 meant all those laws, then what will twenty-one—"

Finn cranked the volume knob so hard Burt almost expected it to pop off in his hand. Twenty-one deaths. Cheerleaders, players on the hockey team, football, track... anyone who had dared to put on a school logo was a target. So was anyone who had dared to get between the two shooters and their targets, like Will Schuester or Henrietta Franklin, one of the lunch ladies. The kids' choir teacher thought he'd be out soon. Ms. Franklin's funeral had been well-attended.

Only twelve people had died in the halls of the school itself. ("Only" twelve.) More had passed away during ambulance or helicopter rides, or shortly after making it into the hospital. Some had held on for a while longer, but only that while. The last, a long-distance track star, had passed away four days earlier in the ICU.

Burt's hands tightened around the steering wheel. The families of the victims had banded together. They knew how everyone was doing. They'd gathered around that kid's family when the news came, for all the good it did.

Most families had.

He and Ms. Puckerman hung back, afraid to touch those grieving forms like they'd burn. Everyone else who'd made it out of the school was on the mend two weeks after the shooting, shaky but beyond any real danger. Everyone but the two boys left in the ICU, whose families still had no real promise that they weren't headed for the same fate as that track runner.

Burt couldn't even remember his name.

That made him one goddamn awful person but he was way too far past exhausted to care.

"We were fighting," Finn said, staring at the noise-blocking walls along the side of the freeway as they passed a small town. "Me and Puck, I mean. We were fighting over Quinn. Over everything with Quinn. We never made up."

"You can make up when they're out of there," Burt said mechanically.

They had to get out of there. Not only his Kurt, but that Puck kid. There couldn't be one more death from this. Those sons of bitches had already taken enough innocent lives. He and Finn stayed quiet all the way to the hospital parking lot.

The two ICU rooms were nearly across from each other in the bright, sterile hallway. Windows dotted the walls. Burt usually thought it was a gross privacy violation to let anyone walking past see his son lying there so small and broken. But some days, when his courage faltered and he couldn't stand the mechanical noises of the ventilator keeping Kurt alive, he was glad that he didn't have to be in there with him to keep watch.

Now the windows let him look in and see the three Puckermans together in that room. Ms. Puckerman clutched her daughter as the doctor explained something about her son in his bed.

"What's wrong?" Finn whispered.

Burt couldn't say anything. It was a scenario he'd already played out too many times in his own head. Some irrational part of his mind told him to keep moving before those doctors noticed him, because if they saw him looking then they'd find bad news about Kurt. "We'll give them a bit before we ask," he said, tugging at Finn's arm until the boy followed him the short distance to the next door.

Carole had practically ordered him to drive to Lima and back when the trio realized that too many demands of home life had gone unmet. She and Finn had handled trips to get clothing or toiletries, had gone to see Quinn and Rachel or to attend funerals, but Burt had lived in the city hospital ever since he first arrived, only stepping away once before that day.

It just had to be that day that she'd demanded he take a break for his mental health. If the doctors didn't see improvement on the ventilator, they told him, at two weeks they'd consider a tracheotomy to avoid prolonged trauma to the mouth and upper throat. They said it was standard. Screw that; they wanted to slice open his son's neck and stick a tube down it. Burt had looked up the procedure. If they messed it up they could steal Kurt's voice away from him forever. Even for talking. They said there was no need to worry. Standard. It was all very standard. Hearing people with scalpels talking about ripping Kurt's throat open would never be "standard." He didn't see what the big deal was about leaving the damn tubes going into his mouth.

"So?" he asked shakily when he walked into the room. Carole looked up. "Did they test again?"

They would take Kurt off sedation, very carefully, and check to see how his lungs were functioning as his body eased toward normal. At first Burt had been angry to learn that Kurt might have woken up on his own if not for the drugs keeping him under. The doctors explained that the instinctive reaction to waking up and feeling tubes down one's throat was to rip out those tubes, potentially causing trauma to the esophagus. Everything about this, _everything_ , was so damn wrong.

"They did," Carole said very carefully. "Burt...."

His head swam. They were going to do the tracheotomy, they were going to mess it up, and he'd never hear "I love you" in his son's voice for the rest of their lives.

"Don't overreact." She looked between them intently. Burt could feel Finn tense beside him. "They think... the signs are good. In the next day or two Kurt might be able to come off the ventilator."

"What?" he asked, barely able to recognize the good news. "He's getting better?"

"He's getting better," Carole said, teary-eyed. She held out her hands and Burt embraced her, just managing not to break down in her arms. He'd spent two weeks, ever since the first news alert had cut through the radio at the shop, preparing for the worst. It was like his muscles had cramped as he cringed against the inevitable bad news. Now that he was trying to move and stretch he could barely do so.

Kurt was coming off the machines. He was going to be okay. He wasn't going to be number twenty-two.

Blindly, Burt reached out and pulled in Finn to the embrace. He'd heard what had happened, bits and piece of the horrors in the school cafeteria. He'd heard what Finn choked out when he woke up from nightmares. The kid had seen a gun right in his face, inches away from going off, and it'd been the luck of the draw that he was still alive that day.

Sometimes, when Burt was watching Kurt's chest rise and fall to the rhythm of a machine, he'd wondered why the boys' fates weren't reversed. He knew it was wrong. He knew it made him a bad person. He still wondered.

But they were both okay. They were both going to be okay.

"I'm going to see what's going on with Puck," Finn eventually said after the small group's jubilation had passed. Burt felt a fresh wave of guilt for forgetting the other boy existed. He could only nod as Finn shared one last small if genuine smile with the two of them and ducked out the door.

* * *

Finn Hudson had spent most of the past two weeks wanting to throw up.

He'd only done it a half-dozen times. The worst had been driving back to Lima for a tomorrow that would end with both Mercedes and Santana eulogized and buried. He'd put it off way too long, because when they started driving back he was officially going to the funerals of two of his friends. Night had fallen before he and his mom finally left Columbus.

They were going to be in caskets, he realized, picturing it before he could help himself. The caskets would close, they'd lower into the ground, and someone would throw shovels of dirt. Then his dead friends would start to rot away in the ground.

He jerked the steering wheel to the right as his mom gasped in horror, cutting across two lanes of traffic. They just made it to the shoulder and stopped before he stumbled out of the car and puked onto the pavement. Flashing lights rolled up behind him.

"How many drinks have you had?" asked the voice behind a flashlight.

Finn couldn't stand up. He couldn't. "None," he dully promised. Mom, inside the car, was staring in horror but kept her hands obediently at ten and two on the wheel.

"Both you and the driver." He raised the flashlight and caught her hair in a halo of light. She mumbled low words that Finn couldn't quite catch.

"None, I yanked the steering wheel."

"Hands on the side of the car."

Slouching his way there, Finn placed his palms on the side panels and shook his head when he was ordered to stand up. "I can't." The cop started to demand an explanation for why he was out on the road, why he'd yanked the wheel, and Finn finally managed to choke out, "I'm going to my friends' funerals. I go to McKinley." The voice behind the flashlight quieted. "I'm getting my wallet," he said, vaguely remembering that you shouldn't make a cop think that you were reaching for a gun or something. He fumbled through it and found his student ID. "McKinley," he showed him. "I'm sorry. I had to throw up."

The footsteps moved to the driver's window.

"Your mom's going to stay in the right lane for the rest of the drive," he eventually heard. "Give her a little more warning if you need to do that again. If it hadn't been so late you could have caused a real accident, kid."

Finn nodded mutely, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and climbed back into his seat. "Sorry," he said through his window. Shaking his head, he rolled it down and repeated the word. "Sorry. Sorry."

The cop exchanged a weighty look across the cab, over Finn, and secured a promise that they'd both drive safe.

He puked again twice the next day, one for each funeral. The other three times had been spaced out a little more.

Staring in at Puck's room, seeing how sick and drawn he'd started looking in the past twenty-four hours without any warning, made Finn want to go for number seven. "What happened?" he asked loudly enough for Ms. Puckerman to hear.

"Finn," she gasped, realizing who was asking. "Come in. Please."

Finn, still staring at Puck's deathly white face, moved before he really knew what he was doing. He'd spent summers at the woman's house. When his own mom had needed to work overtime the Puckermans had been a ready source of friendship and babysitting. (Even if he whined at his mom when she called it that, because he wasn't a baby any more.) When he and Puck made it on varsity as sophomores both of their moms took them out to celebrate. From fourth grade on they'd practically spent their lives together.

Then they'd fought for half of tenth grade. All that time as best friends and they'd only spent a few months fighting, but Puck looked like he was going to die in the middle of it.

Finn had to clutch at the wall when the word hit him.

"An infection," Ms. Puckerman said. Her lips were bleeding. She must have been biting them. "There's an infection. This is a hospital. You come here to get better, but being in the hospital made him sick."

"Is he going to be okay?" Finn asked, staring at how sunken Puck's cheeks had grown. He didn't seem as small and broken as Kurt did, because he'd started off so big in comparison, but he looked far weaker.

"The doctors have him on antibiotics," she explained, staring at the machines dripping steadily away. "Strong ones. Very strong."

"So he's going to be okay?" Finn asked more intently.

A nurse, walking in, saw him standing there and gave him an apologetic but pointed smile. Finn backed out and left the family alone with their son and brother. Noah Puckerman was a badass. If a gun didn't take him down, Finn told himself, then some little bacteria too small to see definitely wasn't going to do the job.

With one last long look through the window, Finn set off to find someone to talk to. Maybe Mr. Schue was awake again. Maybe he could distract him from the depression he saw weighing down the man. He couldn't just stand there and watch.

He'd done enough of that already.

* * *

Artie Abrams cursed as he reloaded the page and saw his edits to the Wikipedia article reverted by an editor. The explanations on the talk page were cold, clinical.

 _The title matches the precedent set by similar incidents._

He didn't give a shit. His friends, his home at least deserved a title as neutral as "school shooting." They shouldn't be discussed in a page titled "William McKinley High School massacre." A massacre. Everyone on the talk page discussed it and agreed ever-so-nicely that yes, what had happened in Lima was a _massacre._

 _Names are listed in alphabetical order by surname until a firm timeline has been established._

Again, he didn't give a shit. Mercedes Jones shouldn't be next to David Karofsky. Santana Lopez shouldn't have to deal with being on his other side. Ever. Their names shouldn't be paired for the whole world to see.

"Look," he said, choking out the words as he typed them. "I go to McKinley. Please. Just let me make these changes."

The response was immediate and very polite. They were sorry for his loss, they were, but things were being addressed in the most neutral way possible. Precedent was followed. An unbiased tone was struck. Someone else verified that his IP address was in the proper area, just so no one accused his account of trying to manipulate everyone.

A knock sounded on his door and he turned angrily away from his desk. "What?" he snapped at whatever parent had interrupted him, only to realize Tina was standing there. "Oh. Hi. Sorry."

"Can I come in?"

"You're already in the house." When she didn't take his meaning from that, Artie gestured in. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."

"Artie," Tina said when she saw what he was looking at, "why are you doing that? Why are you reading that, why are you doing that to yourself?"

He shrugged, thin shoulders barely moving the fabric of his shirt. He'd only been able to make one trip over to the Columbus hospital. He'd seen Brittany incoherent in her bed and then he'd seen the blank wall below the ICU windows. That had just about summed up everything, really. Six boys at their table and he was the only one who'd never been in danger. When gunshots erupted around him all he could do was watch. "Because it's something I can do from inside this room," he finally settled on.

"Rachel tried to save Mercedes." Tina looked down. "She couldn't. It was too late. But she tried. I just stood there."

"Yeah," Artie mumbled, thinking about looking at three bodies around his chair and marveling at how much blood was once inside them. Rachel had tried. Tina'd stood there, he was useless. Finn, Matt, and Mike stood there and could only cry when they lucked out and the cops fired before the shooter did.

"I could have tried to help Santana. Maybe she just needed someone holding back the blood. Maybe. I don't know." Tina tugged at her hair so hard that Artie wondered if it hurt. "I just stood there. I was too afraid to move. I was too afraid to do anything. Afraid."

"It's okay," Artie said. It wasn't, but he didn't know what else he could offer.

"They just looked past me," Tina said, voice finally cracking, "like I was invisible. And I usually hate that. This time it saved me. I couldn't do anything with it but stand there and watch people die."

"We didn't do anything wrong," Artie said, even though it felt like a lie.

"We didn't do _anything_ ," Tina said, sinking onto his bed and crying. He wheeled to her and pulled her onto his lap, holding her tight until she'd cried herself out in big, ugly streaks of mascara running down her cheeks. She mumbled a thank-you when he wiped her somewhat clean with a piece of tissue, latched her arms around his neck, and sat there for a while longer.

Later that night, when she'd left for home and another tasteless meal was in his stomach, Artie returned to his computer. People were trying to edit the main article about Lima itself. He could stop that. He could change that. He could at least do something.

* * *

Removing the tubes inside Kurt's throat seemed to go on forever, a sickly sliding sound of plastic against delicate flesh. It wasn't loud, it was barely audible, but it filled Burt's whole mind. "His lung capacity is still diminished," Dr. Chaudhary told him as she finished the removal and set it aside. "It'll be a long time spent in physical therapy. While they're recovering he won't be able to breathe very deeply, so he's still going to be on oxygen," she explained, holding up a mask. "First this. Eventually, and we're not talking the next few days, we can move to a nasal cannula."

Burt nodded mutely as she settled the plastic form over Kurt's face. It was on him, not inside him, and that was already a huge step in the right direction.

"He can have visitors now," she added, checking vitals. "One hour a day, at least at first. We don't want to push him when he does wake up."

"Right," Burt said. "Sure. Don't want to do that." He would have agreed if the doctor said he should dye his hair purple and join the circus. All he was capable of focusing on was the rise and fall of his son's chest, how he was breathing on his own. That simple act shouldn't seem like a miracle, but after the horror of watching a machine keep him alive by force it sure felt like one to Burt.

"I'll just check the site of the wound to see how he's healing, and then I'll leave you alone," Dr. Chaudhary said, moving aside material. Burt flinched at the sight of the small dark line across Kurt's chest when she checked under the bandages. Stitches sprung out like spider legs, holding together a wound that would otherwise be the size of a dime. That was all it took. A dime was all it took to do this. "Good," she murmured, gently inspecting the skin, and then very gently lifting one shoulder to check the exit wound on his back. "The surface injuries are nearly healed. No signs of infection. We can get him moved into a normal room right away. Let you get a little more comfortable. And soon, hopefully, we can look at a transfer to a hospital near your home."

Infection. He wondered how the Puckerman boy was doing.

"We don't know how long it'll be before he wakes up," she finally said as she repositioned the gown. "The sedatives might have been keeping him under or he might need more time on his own. Expect him to be very disoriented. Very groggy. That'll all be normal. His throat will be very sore. He might not be able to talk at first."

"Yeah, got it. Sure. Can I get him water or anything?"

"When he wakes up?" Her broad face smiled. "You sure can. A nurse should be in soon to handle the transfer to a regular room. I'll check on him again later."

Burt looked around the blinking lights, listened to the steady hum of equipment designed to keep a person alive when every part of their body was fighting to die, and just held back from punching the stuff now that it wasn't needed. It'd feel damn good to get out of that place.

* * *

Will Schuester was a very lucky man.

He had to keep telling himself that as he eased himself into his wheelchair. He had to, because if he let himself think about the level of the tragedy that had unfolded in front him he'd break down crying yet again.

The thing was trickier than it looked. He hadn't spent too much time learning the ropes, since it was temporary, but he'd left his room yesterday and bumped into a corner he'd taken too sharply. Trying to reverse knocked a wheel against a nurse's leg, who stumbled as she tried to avoid his sudden change in direction, and Will broke down crying as he tried to apologize to her.

He'd been apologizing to a lot of people. He wished the people who really deserved to hear it could do so.

He hadn't even been able to remember the gunmen's names. If he had, would that have made them hesitate? Would that had saved a life, even one?

If only he could trade his life for one of those dead students. He'd lived twice their time. Even if the news would have said he was 'a young teacher,' well, he was still an adult. He'd loved, he'd started a career, he'd done at least a few things he'd wanted to. Those kids, those _kids_... they'd had everything stolen from them.

But instead the bullet had sailed right through him, somehow missed vital organs, and he'd been awake and coherent before any other victim who'd taken a "GSW to the chest." He'd heard that medical slang for "gunshot wound" far too often during his time at the Ohio State University Medical Center. Hell, he'd been there way too long if he was mentally referring to the place as OSUMC. If not for some lingering complications, worrisome but not life-threatening, he could have been out of there much earlier.

The doctors kept telling him how lucky he was. He'd believe them eventually, he supposed.

The shooting victims had all been placed on the same floor. Will had run into students and faculty there; some survivors like him and many more visitors who had come to cry over miraculous recoveries or bodies under sheets. The figure at the far end of the hallway hadn't been one of the encounters, not before that moment. Will broke out in the first genuine smile he'd managed in days and rolled his way toward Brittany in her wheelchair.

"Mr. Schue," she said when she realized who was coming at her. "I didn't know you were here." She held out her hands when he approached. They embraced awkwardly until he gave up and half-stood to close the distance. Even then, their hands were very careful. They were both bandaged and heading toward identical scars.

"It is so good," he said, nearly tearing up yet again under the weight of his sincerity, "to see you." He expected her to say something funny and inappropriate and _Brittany_ , but the reality of what had happened sunk in one second before her hands tightened on him hard enough to hurt.

"Santana's dead," she said against him, sounding lost and confused and alone.

"I'm so sorry," Will said, holding her head against his shoulder as she cried. "God, I'm so sorry."

He'd watched them both get shot from across the room. He'd watched them drop, he'd watched Santana scream as Brittany's blood splattered her, he'd screamed himself when the sound echoed again and Santana joined Brittany and Mercedes on the floor. He'd watched. He'd watched the boys whose names he couldn't remember.

"I'm so sorry," Will said again, wishing he could make it all okay.

Eventually Brittany's parents came looking for her. "Will Schuester," he said for an explanation when they found their daughter sobbing against an adult man's hospital gown. "I'm—"

"Her choir teacher, right." Her father managed a wan smile. "Glad to see you're okay."

"How's she doing?" Will asked. It seemed a foolish question when Brittany had yet to stop crying, could only manage to stop in fits and starts before something new started her off, but telling him had probably been like ripping off a band-aid. Hopefully she was healing in-between those moments of admission.

"Not good," her mother finally settled on. "Come on, Brittany," she said very gently. "You should rest up. You're going home soon, it'll be a long drive."

She must have been lucky, too. Ignoring how the word made him cringe, Will tried to focus on what tiny positives remained. Brittany's bullet must have missed vital organs as well, leaving her dealing only with the effects of shock and general trauma. Most who'd had a bullet hit their heart or lung... they'd died in the cafeteria, en route, or were still comatose.

Brittany was safe, Will mentally checked off. The worst case that could possibly happen now was that a full third of his kids would have been ripped away by those maniacs. That shouldn't be a relief, in no way should that be a relief, but four at risk was still better than five. Deciding to see how those others were doing, Will set off for the ICU.

Half-standing again to see through the window, he felt a stab of fear at how pale Puck had grown. Two weeks in there and he was regressing, as near as Will could see. What the hell happened? He'd been doing better, slowly but surely climbing out of the pit of that day. Sick with worry, Will rolled on to the next window, half-stood again, and nearly fell. At the sight of the empty bed he was suddenly, positively sure that the death toll was now up to three, that a fourth of New Directions would be dead and buried in the ground.

"He's in a different room."

Will, not even breathing, turned to Finn as he approached.

"Kurt's doing better," Finn said, scrubbing his eyes with the heel of one hand. "They moved him to a normal room. He didn't need the machines breathing for him any more. He's going to be okay." There was joy there, Will heard, just weighed down under a ton of everything else.

"Thank God," Will said, sinking back into his chair and wiping at his eyes, too. "These two guys... seems like they really toed the line, huh? Of how far they could go and still come back?" He glanced at Puck's window and saw Finn do the same.

"Yeah."

"He'll be okay," Will promised him. "Puck's tough."

"Yeah," Finn repeated, managing a lopsided smile. "He doesn't ever let anyone forget it."

"He sure doesn't."

"Thanks, Mr. Schue," Finn said. "I should probably get back. He's off the drugs, could wake up at any time. Mom and Burt are watching Kurt like a couple of hawks. Just had to see how Puck was doing."

"Right," Will said thoughtfully, picturing them in that room. "Well. Congrats."

Finn caught his meaning and his smile turned broader but very awkward. "Yeah, uh. Well, you're looking good. Gonna go home soon?"

Will nodded. "Emma, Ms. Pillsbury, is picking me up tomorrow."

"Cool. Drive safe."

"We will. We'll _all_ get back to Lima," he added.

Clearly wanting to believe him, Finn nodded, shot one last glance at Puck's room, and walked the other way.

* * *

Bright lights. It hurt. Kurt Hummel screwed his eyes closed when that light hit his pupils and his brain screamed protest.

Something loud started making noise over him, then another something on the other side. That hurt, too. His pale features contorted in pain and the noise stopped. Good. Even that much exhausted him and he fell back asleep.

The lights were dimmer when he woke again. He was able to slit his eyes open and let them adjust before the white of the room became too much to bear. That same noise started up from the big figure rushing over to him. Kurt closed his eyes again and wished he'd stop. He wished he knew where he was, or who was in the room with him. It was too hard to think. It was too hard and he was tired.

A name clawed its way into his mind when he woke up the third time. Kurt tried to mumble "Dad?" but the word died in a painful, dry throat. Soon something was moved away from his face and a cup was held to his lips. Although as much water trickled down his chin as into his mouth, the worst of the pain eased. "Dad?" he tried again, and it was a raspy whisper but it made it out.

"Hi, kiddo," his father said, two wet tracks on his cheeks. He carefully dabbed at Kurt's face with his sleeve and replaced whatever it was on his face. "You woke up for real this time."

"Woke up?" Kurt whispered, trying to swallow and wincing anew at the pain. "Where am I?"

Pale eyes, bloodshot with tears and obvious exhaustion, met his. "You're in a hospital in Columbus."

"Hospital?" Kurt only managed his next words after his father once again held the cup to his mouth. An oxygen mask, Kurt could finally see as it was moved. "Why Columbus?" Had he gone to something in Columbus? Was there a game he'd been dragged to, a Glee performance, a shopping expedition? Clearly something had happened to him, as he was in agony, but the explanation for his pain and setting was a complete fog.

"Do you remember," Dad slowly asked, "why you're here?"

Kurt shook his head, a tiny motion. "Don't remember anything."

* * *

"You didn't say anything about something being wrong with his head!" Burt raged at the doctor. He was so far into his panic that none of Dr. Chaudhary's comforting words were penetrating. Carole Hudson, sighing, threaded her fingers through his and squeezed tightly. Very tightly. Eventually he glanced down to see why she was trying to break his hand and the doctor had a moment to cut in.

"This is normal," she reassured him. "Retrograde amnesia often sets in from the time of severe trauma, particularly with a blow to the head. He's just forgotten the time immediately before his injury. A few hours, likely."

"A blow to the head?" Burt repeated, building again toward panic. "My kid was shot, he didn't—"

"He did," Finn mumbled. He looked so sad and so _guilty_ that Carole pulled him into a hug on instinct. "He just fell backwards and his head hit the floor. Hard. I should have caught him. Puck tried to catch Quinn. I just... I couldn't move. I'm sorry."

"This could have happened even without a blow to the head," Dr. Chaudhary told them all. "Again, it's normal. He might regain the memories, although they'd likely feel like a dream if he can recollect anything. It often has to be helped along with someone informing the victim of what occurred. If they ever come at all."

"Wait," Carole said as the blood drained from her face. "Are you telling us that we have to tell Kurt that he was shot, that his friends were shot, that...."

Burt picked up the unspoken conclusion. "That his best friend was killed in front of him?" He shook his head, fists balled against enemies none of them could hope to fight. "He's in a normal room. Sleeping now, but he'll wake up. There's a remote next to him. This is all over the news, still. He'd turn on the TV up to hear some guy on CNN talking about his school, his friends. Him."

Dr. Chaudhary sighed. "Unfortunately, yes. Under normal circumstances I'd recommend waiting to inform him of what happened, and only with very broad strokes, but you're exactly right. Strangers will jog his memory if you don't. Newspaper headlines. If you'd like, I could handle it?" she offered, seeing their hesitation. "At least the medical side of things, of course."

Burt shook his head. "No. No, I'll do it."

"All right. Take it slowly. I do wish we could wait on this, but the only way to do so would be to block his television, phone calls, stray words floating in from the hallway...." She shook her head. "And that would just make him wonder. I'll check back in later, all right?"

They nodded and let her leave. Burt stared at the door with dull, aching pain visible to both of them.

"Burt?" Carole asked gently. "I could tell him."

He shook his head again.

"I could do it," Finn said. "I was there, I saw it. You guys didn't see... you'd just be saying what they told you. I'd be saying what happened. What he'd actually remember."

Burt opened his mouth, was swept with regret, and closed his mouth again. He nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, that makes sense. That'd probably help him remember. Good thinking, Finn."

With the first tiny bit of confidence Carole had seen from her son in the past two weeks Finn lead the trio back inside the hospital room. "Hey," he began. A hesitant smile flashed on and off his face. "Hey, are you awake? Kurt? Hi?"

"If he's asleep again, we should let him—"

Burt's words were cut off by Kurt stirring on his bed. "Yeah," he mumbled under the oxygen mask. Tired but coherent, he blinked at Finn in question.

"Okay. So. I was there when you got... got hurt." Finn looked back at the adults for support; Burt nodded and Carole affectionately rubbed the back of one shoulder.

Kurt's eyes asked the question of what had happened; he'd seemed to realize that trying to form any but very basic sounds under his mask was a futile prospect.

"We were at school. Do you remember Mr. Schue telling us to work on those songs, boys versus girls?" Waiting for Kurt to consider that and nod, Finn shakily continued, "Okay. So you remember that much. Good. I guess. We were in the cafeteria and everyone looked over when Marcie Langston smacked into that door and smeared lunch all over her shirt. People started laughing and she yelled that it wasn't her fault, the door was locked?"

Kurt, frowning, shook his head.

"And then the other door... opened?" Finn's voice started to tremble. "And then we heard the gunshots?"

Kurt's eyes widened.

"The two guys who had the guns, they started shooting people. They... anyone who moved too fast got shot. So everyone stopped moving. Because they had a plan. They had a plan and they were ignoring a lot of people." When Kurt's hand hesitantly reached up to where Finn knew bandages rested on his chest, he nodded. "Yeah. You got shot. That's why you're in here, because...." Finn's voice broke and Carole wanted to step forward to stop her son's pain, to take over for him, but he'd seen the horrors of that day and she hadn't. "You got shot right in front of me. _Right_ in... I had to throw away that shirt, it was all bloody and Mom couldn't get the stains out."

"Finn," Carole said gently, knowing that Burt would probably collapse next to her if she weren't providing strength for him the same as her son, "don't make this too intense." Kurt's heart rate monitor was speeding.

"Who?" Kurt mumbled. He'd somehow gone even paler than his recovery had left him.

Finn shrugged helplessly. "Just these two guys who—"

Kurt moved the mask aside. "No. They had a plan. A plan for who?"

"Anyone on a team," Finn finally said. He started crying, occasional fat tears that spilled over onto splotchy cheeks. "This whole stupid rant about.... They. God. I can't believe they'd think that. That they'd do all that. They came over to our table and it was going to be everyone but Artie. Everyone. I mean. Mr. Schue was there and he tried to block them, and I _should_ have but I didn't, and—"

"You did fine," Burt told him quietly.

Finn still looked so ashamed. "They shot Puck," he mumbled. "He's still in the ICU. He's not... he's still asleep. And Mr. Schue. He did okay. Quinn. Same deal. They had to do a C-section. Baby wasn't doing so good at first, it was too early, but she pulled through. She went back to live with her parents. I dunno. I guess 'getting shot' trumps all that family stuff."

Kurt's heartbeat raced in their ears. "But they'll be okay? Everyone will be okay?"

"We don't know about Puck," Finn managed. More tears started to fall. "It, uh. Rachel got in the way. She got shot in the leg. But it wasn't bad. She's healing up." He looked back at Carole, seeking any other way to delay this, and her heart ached. She wished she could take the burden for him. "Anyone on a team," he finally said, "or, well. You and Quinn got sh—shot because you were on the squad. Even though Quinn quit."

Kurt, sensing something terrible was coming, replaced his mask and began to draw in breaths.

"They shot Santana and Brittany." Finn looked down. "Brittany was hurt pretty bad, but she made it. Santana. She. She died."

Low, pained noises started under that mask, echoed and warped under its form.

"Kurt?" Finn continued, shaking visibly. "They also... she quit the squad too, but they didn't care. They shot Mercedes. She didn't make it. I'm so sorry. God, I'm so sorry."

Heartbeat speeding even further, Kurt clutched his mask to his face and began wailing in deep, harsh waves. Burt ran to him and tried to hold him for some tiny measure at comfort, but that soon turned into panic of his own as Kurt's sobs outstripped his damaged lungs' capacity to hold air. He was gasping, clawing at his own chest like he was drowning in front of them, and Burt's desperate pleas for him to calm down, to _breathe_ went unheard by a boy clearly feeling nothing beyond emotional devastation and the instinctive certainty that he was going to die.

"Get someone!" Carole ordered Finn, who bolted from the room. Soon a figure in scrubs was running in, doing something to the IV drip hanging above Kurt, and his eyes slid closed.

"Sedated," the man explained. "He _can_ breathe enough for what he needs, just not... he'll need to take it easy."

Burt stared at Kurt, too frightened to move, and Carole closed the space between them. "He just panicked," she said, rubbing his arms. "He just panicked, he'll be okay." Carole couldn't imagine what that would have felt like, to watch her own son drowning in open air, and again thanked God that she'd been spared that pain. She knew she couldn't have done it alone and was glad that fate had kept him from having to deal with that challenge.

"He'll be okay," she promised, saying the words over and over. Carole looked up and smiled at Finn. He looked so heartbroken, so guilty, and he needed strength from somewhere. "We'll all be okay."

* * *

"Quinn, sweetie, you really don't have to do that."

Quinn Fabray blinked hard, trying to hold back tears. She could do this. She could. "I want to, Mom."

Sighing, her mother perched on the edge of her bed, but only after she'd closed the door behind her. "I'll at least get you a good nursing bra, then," she said, adjusting the thin blanket covering her daughter and granddaughter. "So you don't have to flash the room," she said lightly.

A lactation consultant had talked to Quinn. She'd missed out on something called "colostrum" that babies were supposed to get, but that couldn't be helped, not with an emergency C-section that had sent her newborn into the NICU. The sight of her, touching her, had reminded her body of what it would have done had the pregnancy been allowed to continue to its natural conclusion. Pumps helped in the meantime, until two days earlier when she'd finally been allowed to take her daughter home.

"You drank formula," Mom said. "And look at how beautiful you turned out." She brushed away Quinn's hair from her face and smiled.

"I know you don't care that much, Mom," Quinn softly said, feeling that tiny mouth work at her chest, "and it's Dad who's freaking out. Saying it should be a bottle." She smiled thinly. "He's not going to be around much longer, do you think?"

Her expression closed off. "That's inappropriate, Quinn." She stood and began rearranging tiny bottles on her desk, adjusting photographs tucked into a mirror, anything but looking at her daughter and the small form draped under a pink cotton square.

Quinn shook her head. She could see the tension, she could see that her father was cheating. Soon it would be too much for her mother to deal with and things would explode. She hadn't asked to be brought back to the house. Her parents had been called after the shooting and they'd arrived when she was still undergoing surgery. Decisions had been made for her. She woke up to see their stares. She woke up to hear that she was moving back in, no questions asked, and that they would take care of their granddaughter.

Adoption was still the smart thing to do, even if she had no plans, no agency, no route to it. But it was too late. Her parents had steamrolled her life. She'd fallen in love with her daughter, with that perfect little face that had her father's eyes. At least those eyes would open, would look at Quinn. Puck, an hour away, had yet to open his.

Abigail. It meant "joy." Depending on the translation it could be joy from a father toward his daughter, or from a daughter to her father, but it was always between the two. Her parents liked it because it came from the Bible. Quinn didn't mention that she'd chosen a name from the Old Testament.

"Abigail," Quinn said softly, moving the blanket to stroke her tiny daughter's hair.

She wondered what name Puck would have wanted.

* * *

At some point Finn would relocate back to Lima. Maybe in his own bed, curled up under his own sheets, he'd be able to fight off the dreams that had played on an infinite loop ever since the day of the shooting.

He'd thought he was a good guy. That he could do the right thing. But he stood there and let Mr. Schue serve as a shield for their table, thankful that an adult was there so he didn't have to step up. He watched Puck try to step in front of Quinn, how he'd raged when she was shot. When the gun turned its attention to Kurt—and that's all that stranger had turned into, a walking piece of death, a walking gun—Finn watched him stand there so still, barely making any noise at all.

When the gun went off Finn watched Kurt's whole body arc backward under the blow to his chest. He watched a shower of blood erupt from his back, much larger than the front. He watched Kurt fall backwards, slam against the floor, and keep bleeding. He watched it. That was all he did.

Then the gun turned to him and he nearly wet himself.

Sometimes Finn woke up at that point, hating himself, hating how useless he was. Sometimes the dream replayed, splattering him with blood over and over until he ran red with it like his uniform, and he woke up hating himself ten times more.

Eventually he'd stop jerking awake in the middle of the night, nearly sliding out of his chair or the bed, trying not to break down. His dreams were only of the bloody rampage five feet away from him. Awake he started to remember funerals. Mercedes and Santana stayed out of his dreams. But he didn't picture those funerals every second he was up. Awake was better than asleep.

Finn was really tired.

Staying quiet so he wouldn't wake anyone, Finn slipped from the room. He was halfway down the hallway before he realized how stupid he was. "They'll kill me," he mumbled to himself before he could help it.

He needed to not use that phrase. Ever.

Hands shaky, Finn fumbled for his phone. He'd forgotten to grab his charger on a trip to Lima, but the hospital wanted him keeping it off inside the ICU and he'd barely turned it on after. There was enough energy left for a few texts. He couldn't believe he hadn't told people before then.

 _kurts awake hes going 2 b ok_

 _mr schue n brit will b home soon_

 _pucks sick_

Finn stared at his screen as it cleared of the last text, and then stabbed the power button with his thumb. He should have grabbed his charger.

The Puckermans were awake when he walked to that hall, even though it was the middle of the night. After another bit of hesitation he walked in when Ms. Puckerman nodded. There were no nurses to see, to tell him to get out. She seemed to want a hug. He wanted one too, so that worked out.

"Mursa," whispered the small face at her side. "That's what they keep saying."

He didn't know what that meant. He only knew that Puck's family looked really, really worried. As worried as he'd ever seen them since that first awful day when Finn was pinballing around the crowded waiting room. "Can I talk to him?" Finn asked shakily. When she nodded Finn thought about asking for privacy, then realized that would be about the shittiest thing he could do.

He hated to admit it to himself, but it wouldn't be fair to steal away any time from that family. There might not be much left. "Hey." Finn swallowed. "Hey man."

Puck's skin was very pale above the collar of his hospital gown. His eyebrows, his hair stood out in stark relief against it. His hair had kept growing, Finn realized. That seemed weird. Weird and wrong. He was trying to get his mohawk back. Someone should shave off the rest of his hair.

"Uh. So we've been fighting. And I was really mad at you." Finn hesitated, not wanting to say this all in front of Puck's family, but Puck's heart had been exposed to a piece of lead. Finn could expose his own with words. "But I watched you hold Quinn. You were like her... like her kevlar vest or something. You tried to be. You tried to do something."

Finn bowed his head. "You _tried to do something_ ," he repeated. "You stepped up, man. You... I can't be mad at you. The time Quinn needed you the most, you stepped up. You were a better guy than I was. You did awesome. That was my friend right there. The guy who...." He swallowed hard to open his choked throat. "Who made plans with me for how we were going to be first round draft picks for the NFL, who always had my back, who showed me how to do the javelin glitch when I was too tired to think of anything past my Xbox."

Puck didn't say anything, didn't move. His eyelids didn't even flicker.

"You're my best friend," Finn sniffled. "You've gotta make it out of this. Because I want my best friend back. I miss having him around."

Somehow he was pulled into a hug and his tears were being wiped away. He hadn't realized when new tears had started.

 _Stop being such a bitch,_ he could hear in Puck's voice. He was trying.

"Thank you," she said quietly, pulling Finn down enough to kiss him on the forehead. "I think it will help him to hear that."

"Does that mean Noah's waking up?" asked that small, crumpled face. "It'll help him to wake up?"

All hope was gone from the woman's eyes. Finn didn't know why, but it scared him so bad. If he was sick, it was okay, because this was a hospital. It was the best place to get sick. Right? "It's something that's important for your brother to hear," she settled on, leaning down to kiss her daughter. "Thank you, Finn."

He nodded and backed out.

Two figures were awake when he returned. He motioned them out into the hall so they wouldn't wake Kurt, because he needed all the sleep he could get. "Puck's doing... he looks really bad," Finn choked out. "I don't even know what he has. I don't know what 'mursa' is."

"MRSA," Mom corrected, spelling out each letter. "I've read about that." Her eyes flicked back to Kurt's room and she bit her lip. "I hope they're containing it." Burt looked worried at whatever was being discussed and she explained, "Staph infection. Drugs can't really fight it."

"Drugs can't fight it?" Finn repeated. "But he's... Mom, he's already wiped out. How's he supposed to fight it if drugs can't help?"

"With the good wishes," she finally settled on, "of the people who care about him."

That didn't raise Finn's hopes.

He didn't fall back asleep that night. He spent the next morning hearing strange things in his tired, dreamlike state. Things about how long Noah Puckerman had been trying to fight off his infection, how his body was too weakened to put up a good fight, and how something called linezolid was finally being used. It could actually fight that infection, Finn learned.

He didn't let himself hope. But he stopped staring through the window until heard another term later that day. It was a drug of last resort.

* * *

 _kurts awake hes going 2 b ok_

 _mr schue n brit will b home soon_

 _pucks sick_

Quinn angrily punched in another text and swore when it went ignored. She'd tried calling Finn three times already and it went to voicemail every time. Great. That was just great. Their world had practically ended and he still couldn't forgive her. He was being _that_ petty.

Her thumb danced across a new number and Quinn held her phone to her ear. She smiled when she heard it click on. "Hey. It's Quinn. How are you doing?"

"I'm still in the hospital," Brittany said.

"I know. Finn told everyone you'd be here soon. But are you really doing... okay?"

"No."

There was so much pain in that short, simple word. Pain that didn't belong in Brittany's voice. "You should come over when you get back to Lima," Quinn told her. "We could both use a friend." Brittany _needed_ a friend like she needed oxygen. She needed that person to face the day with, to share her laughter, to make sense of strange and confusing ideas.

Quinn had always prided herself on not needing anyone.

She was pretty sure she needed a friend, too.

"That would be really nice," Brittany said. "Are you still in the hospital? They said you got shot. Like... like me."

"No, I'm home," Quinn said, fingers ghosting over the soft skin of her baby's cheek. "I'm home with Abby."

"Who's that?"

"My baby. Abigail."

"That's a pretty name. Did you pick it?"

Yes, all on her own. Getting the birth certificate filled had been an exhausting task. Quinn, still groggy from surgery, hadn't been able to answer the questions. Her parents had tried to step in and tell them what to put down in the fields.

She hadn't talked to her parents for a long time before that day in the cafeteria. It was a big deal to throw out a birth certificate once the information had been written down, but Quinn had to push them until they did it. No matter how little she wanted to share the truth they had to throw away a certificate that said "Finn Hudson" and redo one under "Noah Puckerman."

Her dad hadn't looked at her for the rest of that whole evening, or his granddaughter.

Quinn looked around her room, at its door closed against the chance that her father might walk past and see his daughter nursing, and felt desperately alone. "Yes, she finally said. "Yes, I picked it. Brittany, so will you come over?"

"Sure."

"And... Finn said Puck's sick. Is he really sick?"

"I went by his room," Brittany finally said. "He looks icky."

Quinn closed her eyes, screwing them so tight that her whole face warped around the effort, and tried to hold back tears. She didn't have any right to cry. She was back home. Her mother was helping her, she had her clothes and car and _life_ back, she'd stayed alive when her friends had died. She was the strong one. She was Quinn Fabray.

She didn't have any right to cry.

* * *

 _kurts awake hes going 2 b ok_

 _mr schue n brit will b home soon_

 _pucks sick_

Rachel Berry stared at the texts. She reread them over and over, wanting for them to reveal more truths than they were currently offering.

Puck was sick? With what? How serious was it, should they be concerned? He and Kurt had both been in the ICU; how could it be that one person was headed certainly toward recovery and one's entire state was described as "sick?" Her call went straight to voicemail and Rachel threw her phone against her bed. It bounced and landed on the carpet.

It wasn't a surprise that Finn was ignoring her. Everyone was. He was consumed by his time in Columbus and she certainly couldn't fault him for his dedication to the four of their group still in that hospital.

Rachel, despite their previous dynamic, had tried calling Quinn. She felt that if there were any time to bridge the gap between them than this would certainly be it. She'd watched the other girl fall, screaming and bloody. Quinn sounded nicer to her than she'd ever heard, but she had to go. She had to take care of her baby. Rachel couldn't fault her for that, either.

She'd tried meeting with Tina and Artie. They were strange, distant. That wasn't a surprise. Everyone in Lima, from students to retirees who had only seen the news, walked around as hollow shells of themselves. Her friends' eyes were heavy with pain and guilt, guilt that spiked higher when they saw Rachel. They put up with her for a while. Then they wanted her gone.

Mike and Matt did the same thing. It was as if she'd done something wrong. She didn't know what.

Leaning over, Rachel fumbled for her phone and stared at her contacts. She hardly knew anyone. Everyone she knew was hurt or ignoring her. A name flashed by, one that she refused to delete, and Rachel froze where she sat.

 _so much blood pouring from Mercedes' chest it doesn't matter than your leg is hurt it'll be fine push down push harder you can save her Tina doesn't know what she's talking about you can save Mercedes it doesn't matter than your hands are bloody it doesn't matter that you're bleeding all over your skirt you hated that skirt anyway push you have to try you have to do something you can't just sit there_

She didn't know how long she'd been crying when her father's soft cooing noises broke through her anguish.

Were they blaming her for Mercedes dying?

Was that what she'd done wrong?

* * *

Carole practically had to drag Kurt's doting father away from him for a decent lunch. Kurt understand that his dad had been hovering for weeks, but now that he was awake and talking it was like Burt Hummel's attention had been ramped up to ever greater levels.

He just wanted to be left alone. Grief was a greedy, demanding emotion. It wanted silence, isolation, and time to finish consuming him. He wanted to be left alone to try to remember the sight of his best friend dying, but there always had to be at least one person there.

"They're letting people in." Finn glanced at the door like he halfway expected to see someone standing there. "Want me to find a phone, tell people to visit?"

No. Because the one person who needed to visit would never be able to make the trip.

"My phone's out of power, I mean, I'd have to find a new one. Or you could wait for a transfer to Lima, sounds like they're gonna do that pretty soon. I mean, people'd make the drive over here in a second, but... or I could just let you say yes or no."

Kurt blinked tiredly at him, trying to make sense of that. Even under his grief he could realize the hole in Finn's logic. He reached up and moved his mask aside to talk. "They've let people in."

Finn shook his head, clearly not getting it.

"You and Carole." He had to replace the mask for a few breaths. "My dad'd be in, of course. But they let in you two. All this time, they let you in."

Considering that, Finn placed the mask back on Kurt's face. "Just... leave it there. Okay?"

Wary, Kurt nodded.

"It. Uh. Yeah. We tried to tell them we were family on the first day so they'd let us inside, but then they actually checked it out. And then we could only stand outside in the hallway, looking in, while your dad totally lost it inside next to you." Finn looked away. "He had to keep coming outside if he wanted a hug from Mom, and that made him freak out because he didn't want to leave you, and...."

"And?" Kurt asked, his voice muffled inside the mask.

"And. Uh. I. Look. I didn't expect to be okay with it. But you got shot right in front of me and I was completely useless. That was pretty much the worst thing I've ever felt in my life. So if it helped with dealing with the hospital, it was okay."

"And?" Kurt repeated more intently.

"Um. Don't freak out. Yeah, so. Mom and your dad popped out one day, went to City Hall, and got married. Please keep breathing." Kurt clutched the mask closer to his face, pressing so hard it hurt. He sucked in deep breaths and tried not to let them get ahead of how much oxygen his damaged lungs could actually hold. Holding out his hands in placation, Finn promised, "It's not real or anything. It just helped with the paperwork. It let Mom stay with you when we needed to run back. That sort of stuff. They'll figure out what to do next when this is all over."

"It's not real," Kurt instantly agreed, muffled under the plastic. It was still hard to keep his breathing regular. Finn's words terrified him. He didn't know why. They shouldn't. They should make him happy. That had been his whole _plan_ , after all. His whole plan. His whole plan about Finn. Oh _God._

"Breathe," Finn said when Kurt started to panic and gasp for air. He sucked in a deep breath, clearly trying to hold back concern, and set up a steady rhythm for Kurt to follow.

"Please. Leave." The words came out as halting gasps. Kurt's chest burned.

Looking guilty beyond words, Finn stood and backed toward the door. "I'll get a nurse," he promised. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have... I should have let your dad tell you. I'm sorry."

He'd been doing so well with controlling himself, even with everything that had happened. Even with Mercedes. But when her name floated back into his mind, he was drowning again. He was drowning and gasping until drugs turned his world black.

* * *

Sepsis, Finn learned, was the entire body fighting an infection. It happened when that infection hit the bloodstream, turning every single vein and artery inside a person into a deadly wound. Every drop of blood was poison if the infection couldn't be defeated.

"Come on, man," he whispered through the window. "Come on. You're strong. You can win."

Fever. A racing heartbeat. The drugs were supposed to have taken care of all that. It was a miracle drug, it could fight anything. It didn't matter that Puck's chest had started bleeding again all around his wound, this time with gross ruptured boils instead of a single gunshot. Puck'd made it out of that cafeteria. If a gunshot couldn't kill him, if that fountain of blood didn't kill him, then he couldn't die to something Finn couldn't even see.

He couldn't.

"You're supposed to fight," Finn said darkly, angry at Puck. At Kurt. At Santana and Mercedes because they hadn't fought hard enough and they'd died and made everyone sad. At his mom, at his _parents_ for asking him if they were okay with their plan and acting like there was any answer he could give but "yes."

It was way past an asshole move to let himself be angry at those people, it was so wrong.

Finn wondered if he had feelings infecting him like that bacteria was infecting Puck. It felt like it. Sometimes they swelled up too much and then he wound up throwing up, like that gross stuff on Puck's chest had burst open. But that was stupid. It was wrong to even think that. Feelings weren't real, not in comparison to the real hurt that other people had suffered. You could force back feelings, you could ignore them.

A hundred-and-three fever, multiple organ failure, a sobbing mother saying something in Hebrew that was the saddest thing Finn had ever heard in his life... that was real.

"He never heard me, Mom," Finn said when he felt her arms close around him. His anger veered suddenly into anguish. "We never talked."

"He heard you."

"I saw the guns," he said. "You see a gun when it hurts you, you see a bullet. How can this hurt him so bad? If something's hurting someone you should be able to _see_ it. It's not fair." She hugged him tighter as Finn broke down, sobbing against her like he hadn't since... since just two weeks ago when his world had exploded. He'd been crying too much.

The blinds on the window closed with a snap and Finn's breath seized in his throat. He turned a questioning, desperate look to his mother and got a helpless one in return.

Soon he heard the screeching, steady noise of an unresponsive monitor. Soon he heard "clear" and a wailing mother and daughter. Soon he heard "time of death."

The papers the next day returned to their standby topic. Finn's phone had completely drained of power. He was too broken to even think about trying to relay the events to one person at a time. He barely could have managed a text. Speech was impossible. He couldn't do anything. Finn slumped in a chair while the nurses sedated Kurt again. Burt swore as his wife cried in his arms.

So his friends learned about that night from strangers, from newspaper headlines.

 _McKinley Death Toll Rises To 22_

* * *

Two weeks later the news had found different things to discuss. McKinley was still a topic of conversation, but only if some guest had a point to make. It wasn't the default lead story. Two weeks later grass had started to grow on the graves of the buried victims.

"Not yet," Kurt heard his dad say in gentle tones. He looked down, fighting back tears. The thin plastic tubing under his nose was delivering extra oxygen. A small tank with an attached mask was there for emergencies. He'd had some. They were terrifying, a burning chest spiraling him even further into terror. They'd agreed that he needed to avoid putting himself in situations where his body would run away with him, not until his painful physical therapy had started to rebuild his lungs' strength.

Going to see Mercedes' grave would spark an attack. They both knew it.

That didn't mean it made that denial any easier to hear.

"There's something else we need to talk about. It's... so I got married."

"Oh." Kurt wrapped his arms around himself and looked away. "So you're getting a divorce? Or can you just get it annulled, since it was all fake?"

"No. They're moving in. We're doing this for real."

Kurt grabbed blindly for his mask and shoved it against his face as the words rolled over him. He and Carole loved each other. They'd been each other's rock during all of this. If this had happened when it was just the two of them they never would have made it through whole. He still needed help, so did Kurt, and all of them could use more love and support to make it out of this tragedy.

"No," Kurt said into his mask. "No, no."

He was sick, he was injured. He needed the help.

He didn't get a voice in this decision. He didn't have any voice at all.

* * *

"I am _so_ glad to see you," Rachel said, latching onto Finn when he greeted her at the door.

Regionals had come and gone without them. Vocal Adrenaline, complete with their old lead singer, had stormed to victory. Jesse had sent his regrets about what had happened, his very sincere and heartfelt regrets, but he'd moved on. The entire world had moved on.

Tina and Artie, Mike and Matt, they kept moving on, too.

The four of them barely said anything to her at Puck's funeral. Neither did Finn, but he looked like walking death. Quinn only lasted a few minutes before she vanished behind the crowd, Brittany tagging silently along. Rachel wound up with Mr. Schue's arm around her shoulders. Maybe he was right. Sometimes he was the only one who liked her.

Her parents kept asking her if she wanted to go to the therapists the state had brought in to deal with the tragedy. Rachel didn't feel right in taking up one of those slots. Not when she had gotten out so relatively unscathed, not when she had such confidence in her own ability to analyze her reactions to events and deal with them in an adult and productive manner.

It sounded like no one else from Glee had gone, either.

They just didn't want to talk about it.

"Thank you for coming with me," Rachel said when they arrived at the cemetery after a long and silent drive. "I keep coming here, not knowing what I expect to find with each new visit, and yet I can't seem to stop." She looked at him and saw Finn was maintaining a level, controlled expression with obvious effort. He was being such a _boy_ after he'd had his breakdown at Puck's funeral.

"So," she began for something to talk about when they'd stepped into the parking lot. "How is it?"

"What?"

"Moving in. The whole... everything."

"Oh." Finn sighed. "Hard. I mean, Burt and I get along great. Nice house."

"But?" Rachel prompted, knowing there was another figure in that house and suspecting that he was causing Finn's obvious discomfort.

"Kurt's mad at me or something. I don't get it." Finn shrugged. "I talked to Mom and she said that he's probably just hurting, not to take it personally. So I'm not, I'm trying not to. But it seems kinda personal. I don't know."

"I'm sorry," Rachel said.

"I can deal with it. Would you believe we're in the same room?" He seemed to want a smile, if only a quick one, so Rachel gave it to him. Finn shrugged again. "It's okay, though. He's avoiding me, always trying to be in the opposite corner, but then he falls asleep and sometimes...." Finn sighed. "Sometimes he has bad dreams and he can't wake up. And his breathing's all messed up. But I can wake up, so I can stick this mask on him."

"Shouldn't he just sleep with it on, then?"

"You'd think. I dunno. If I made the suggestion he'd probably ignore it just because it came from me."

Rachel had no idea what to make of all that. She knew perfectly well that Kurt's attention toward Finn had been far past friendly. Shouldn't Finn doting on him be a dream come true, as terrible as that phrase sounded? Curious.

They'd reached the section populated by many of the McKinley victims. There was the freshest grave in the row. Rachel felt hot tears prickle again and pressed two fingers to her mouth, then to Puck's gravestone. "I'm sorry we never really talked again, Noah," she murmured. "I think you could have done great things."

She'd sobbed at his funeral, at the sight of his mother saying her last words only to stop in their middle and freeze up in silence.

It had been very sunny when Puck was buried. It was partly cloudy when they buried Mercedes and Santana, along with many of the other victims. Rachel had felt that day was in poor taste. Too many funerals, not enough time to really understand what she felt for each new one. But yet there was nothing else to do. Too many people had died. They all had to be buried.

Puck's, though, had come after a time of recovery. After the unrelenting trauma had faded, giving people a chance to once again feel fresh pain.

Rachel had cried very, very hard. Everyone had. Everyone had attended. Noah Puckerman had been given one of the largest funerals in the history of Lima, according to the local paper. It was the last chance to show mourning for the victims. With him they'd buried every last body anew and grief had resurfaced from people in strange new ways.

She glanced at a grave as they passed it. David Karofsky, Beloved Son. The letter was still there. Rachel had placed it during her last visit, though she wasn't the author. His grave was just along the road, meaning that the form of the curb blocked it. Going around to its back was a long, long ways if one couldn't simply step over that small concrete wall. Rachel had seen many people in wheelchairs fresh from the hospital, every single one of her friends who'd made it out alive, but they'd stood up once their strength returned. She'd have to get used to picturing Azimio in one. He looked so different.

"Mercedes," Rachel began when they were in front of her grave. "It's me again. Hello."

Finn shot her a questioning look when she began a conversation with a small patch of grass and marble, but didn't try to stop her.

"They're figuring out what to do with the conclusion of the school year. It sounds as if the school district is going to make an exception for the required number of attended days. There might be some testing involved. It's all very complicated. My fathers have contacted the district about something else and you'll be pleased to hear that we can still compete next year. They're going to support all the extracurriculars at McKinley. They feel it's important to maintain student morale."

"Rachel," Finn finally said, "she... can't hear you."

"I know." Rachel sat down. "I'm not sure how we'll ever move on in spirit, however. I think about you and Santana and Puck and it seems preposterous to believe that we would reach the required number of singers with any mixture that doesn't include the three of you."

She was crying. That was understandable.

"I wish you'd never felt that you had to join the Cheerios," Rachel said, tears flowing. "I do. But you should know that you sounded magnificent."

Finn joined her sitting there on the grass. For a while they only stared at the crisp lettering telling the world when Mercedes Jones had entered and left it. He pulled her against his shoulder and Rachel cried until the tears stopped coming. But then he stood abruptly, tugging her to her feet, and seemed almost panicked.

"Oh, Finn. It's all right. She comes here a lot." They both watched Sue Sylvester walk among the graves, silently mouthing names as she went. She didn't stop at the five dead members of her squad. Every single death from her school, students and faculty alike, was acknowledged. "Although I've never said anything." Even if she weren't _Sue Sylvester_ , as that made her too frightening to approach all on her own, there was something in the woman's eyes that warded off any social approaches. Her shields were up.

"Oh." Finn looked at the woman, back to Rachel, and seemed to decide something that surprised even himself. "Ms. Sylvester?" he said loud enough to carry down the row of grave markers.

She turned. Her stare was haunted.

"I don't know if you hear this stuff," Finn said, still talking loudly. Neither the two of them nor Ms. Sylvester had moved toward each other. "But Kurt's out of the hospital. He's at home. It'll take him a while, but he's going to be okay."

Nothing was said for a long, long time. Rachel didn't even recognize the look on the woman's face. "And Brittany?" she asked. Her voice shook. It hardly sounded like hers. "School's out. So I'm not hearing anything, no. Not unless the families contact me."

"She's okay. She's home. Doing quite well as I understand," Rachel picked up.

"That's good." A thin smile flashed. "Tell the two of them to be ready in September. I don't know what we'll do. But I refuse to roll over and not try anything."

"But. Uh." Finn sought Rachel's hand and squeezed it. She squeezed back, not knowing what had him so upset but seeing he needed that comfort. He finally started walking forward and was able to say his next words without shouting them across the cemetery. Rachel tagged along and heard, "Ms. Sylvester, I don't know if... Kurt can't sing."

Rachel started. "What?"

"He... his lungs are still all messed up. He tries." Finn looked down. "He's breathing really quickly since he can't breathe deep, so he can't hold notes. They wobble all over the place if he doesn't give up. And he's really quiet. You can barely hear him."

Rachel's heart ached anew, like it hadn't since she'd been at Puck's funeral. And she knew that was terrible, that they didn't compare, but she still wanted to cry. "Brittany," she said, hating to admit it, "is weak as well. I heard this from Quinn, who seems to be doing well. She gets tired very quickly. She can't move very much. I'm afraid it will be a very long while before she regains her skills at dancing, Coach Sylvester."

If she didn't immediately tell herself that it must be a trick of the light Rachel would have almost thought that she saw Sue Sylvester's eyes watering. "I see," the woman said. She pursed her lips. "Well, Berry. You're up and walking around. So you kids are recovering."

Rachel felt so guilty. She'd hardly been hurt at all, it had been a surface wound. She'd wound up with a long puckered scar that had put her off miniskirts forever, nothing to compare to the real injuries others had suffered when they were a target instead of a distraction.

"There's physical therapy," Finn agreed. "He hates it, I think it really hurts, but they're working on fixing stuff."

"Right," she said distantly. "Well. Let me deign to share my wisdom beyond the worthy ears of my Cheerios. Those routines we put on, the lifts and flips, they have two roles. Most people only think about the girls up top being thrown twenty feet into the air. That's the focus. They're flashy, they get the attention, they're risking breaking their necks."

Finn blinked. She looked annoyed. "It's a lot more dangerous than what you face playing football, Hudson. But I keep...." She swallowed. Rachel could definitely see moisture in her eyes that time. "But I keep my kids safe," she finished, looking away before she finally continued. "And the way you do that is through a support system below them. Strong arms locked into place, not moving an inch no matter how much it burns. It might be hard for them. Doesn't matter. They ignore that burning and they stand where they're needed, because their pain is less important than making sure that flip ends safely."

"Coach Sylvester?" Rachel asked when she'd turned that over in her mind. Mr. Schue was injured. He probably needed support and his students weren't the ones to provide it. He wouldn't lean on them. "Have you been to see Mr. Schue?"

"Once. I gave him a little pep talk."

Something about that sounded very, very sad.

"But now I'm sure he and his piece of action on the side are busy feeding each other grapes and shotglasses of Mr. Clean. Buck up. Your very own Whoopi Goldberg will be back to lead his misfit group next year." She smirked. "Maybe he could take a tip from the costumes there and start wearing a nun's costume. It'd cover his hair."

They laughed weakly, feeling like they should do _something._

"Well, I'm off," Ms. Sylvester said, her voice forcing its way back into something like normal. "I saw a couple of kids selling lemonade on the corner by my house this morning. Gonna have to call the cops on them. Can't have unlicensed businesses running in the neighborhood, it'll bring down the property values."

They said their short goodbyes. All Rachel could think as they watched that tall form walk away was that she'd found the one person lonelier than her.

That realization made her shiver.

Maybe she wasn't doing as well as she'd tried to tell herself.

* * *

It was just Quinn and her mom, now. Her dad had left right on schedule. She didn't know why she'd ever idolized the man.

"You have a visitor," she heard in distant, distracted tones. The door opened without even checking to see if Quinn wanted someone entering. She, muttering, fumbled for her small blanket.

Brittany walked in and Quinn's nerves eased. "Hi," Brittany said, holding up her hand and moving the fingers in a slight, hesitant wave. "I came over again."

"I see that," Quinn said. She watched Brittany walk slowly and painfully toward the bed, then ease herself onto it. She'd really been messed up that day. They were making her go to physical therapy. She'd heard so much about how much pain Brittany felt, but when Brittany would break down and talk about how much she hurt, how sleepy she was, and how she just wanted to have everything be like normal, Quinn knew the last bit wasn't about her damaged body.

Brittany didn't seem to realize that, though. She didn't seem to understand everything she was trying to deal with. Quinn wondered how long she'd take to be okay. This was a huge deal, this wasn't anything they should have had to deal with, but Quinn knew she was dealing _way_ better than most people. She was tough. It might take Brittany a while, especially since Brittany's mind seemed to be protecting her by not letting her think for too long at any one time on how her best friend was dead.

Brittany rested her head against Quinn's shoulder. Her arm draped across her chest and rested on Abigail's back as she nursed. "Is this okay? Your boob's out."

"It's okay," Quinn said. They'd seen each other undress a hundred times in the locker room, and strangers checking her abdominal stitches had done much to remove any lingering modesty.

"You sure? You've got stretchmarks," Brittany said bluntly.

Quinn flinched. They weren't bad, not really, but she still didn't want to hear it. "Yes, and a big scar on my leg, I know."

Brittany flinched as well. Her scar was even bigger, Quinn instantly thought, and felt guilty at the wave of fear that moved across her friend's face before it shut down and her eyes were once again vacant. Sometimes she'd cry about Santana and they were heartbreaking, whole-body wails that almost consumed the girl, but then she'd shut down just as abruptly and talk about anything else. Pillows. Minivans. Indiana.

"How are people doing?" Quinn asked, hoping Brittany would know something she hadn't heard.

"Everyone's sad and weird." That about summed it up, yes. "It's like a lot of people are just gone." Brittany seemed to realize she'd stepped toward a dangerous edge and almost started trembling before she reined herself back in. "I mean. They don't want to talk to anyone."

"Mr. Schue?" Quinn asked, knowing he'd gotten out at about the same time as her.

Brittany shrugged. "No classes. No one sees him."

He was at Puck's funeral, ghostly white and shaking, but he'd only said a short apology afterward about how that shouldn't have happened, how Puck shouldn't have been the one dying, before he vanished again.

"I guess I could look in the phonebook."

"No," Quinn said. "He probably doesn't want to have to deal with a bunch of kids. Kurt?"

Brittany's eyes went sad again. "He won't talk. I mean, to anyone. I call and he's just really quiet. But I talked to Finn and I think it's because it hurts him after a while, not because he doesn't want to talk to me."

"Oh." Quinn hadn't known that, but then, she was still gathering her energy to move toward something like a normal life. Ignoring her parents' snippy demands to not associate with _that boy_ hadn't yet moved to the top of her list of priorities.

"Have you talked to Finn?" Brittany asked.

"No." Quinn swallowed. "I think he's still ignoring me." She hadn't wanted to risk another rejection like he'd displayed from inside the hospital. Even if Finn had the excuse of dealing with family issues, Quinn's own father had left. The father of her child... even he'd _left_. He'd left her to deal with their baby alone. She couldn't take more rejection.

Funny, she'd wanted to push for adoption because she didn't want to raise a baby, and that baby needed a father. Now her father was gone, Puck was dead, and Quinn walked around in a fog of funerals, nursing, cell phones, and terrible television shows. Her daughter's first soundtrack probably should have been Disney or Mozart or one of those baby genius tapes. Instead she heard The Hills and TMZ.

"Would you believe Rachel called me?" she finally laughed. "Rachel Berry. Like she was trying to be friends."

"Weird," Brittany agreed. Her gaze was going distant again. She wasn't spending much time in the here and now. Santana was dead in the here and now. She let her mind drift away to happier times, instead.

Quinn looked at her and worried that if she drifted too far she might never find her way back. "Maybe I could call back. I guess Rachel's not _terrible._ "

"Sure."

Quinn lifted a hand from her daughter and moved it to Brittany, stroking her gently. She could take care of her like she took care of her baby, like she even took care of her mother by dancing around the subject of the missing man in the house and never showing her emotions over what had happened.

It was all right if all of that made her a little tired. After all, it wasn't like she had much to do beyond sleep.

* * *

Artie lifted his hand and knocked on Tina's door. "Hey. Can I come in?" She ignored him. Her shoulders were shaking. She was crying? Frowning, Artie rolled into her room, thankful for the small bit of rearranging the Cohen-Changs had done inside their house to accommodate him. "You okay?"

"They're fucking _monsters,_ " Tina wheezed.

He looked to her monitor and saw, of all things, a cheerleading website. "Why are you...?" Artie began, but his voice trailed off when he saw the title of the message board thread: Maybe They Should Do This Every Year.

Anonymous posters with cheerful avatars of Hollywood celebrities and adorable pets had filled the thread with photos of the William McKinley Cheerios photoshopped with targets, bulletholes, and spreading red stains. Sue Sylvester's skin tone looked like a corpse in one shot; in another she'd been impaled on a massive trophy while blood spurted. They were terribly done. They looked fake as all hell. It didn't matter at all.

"Jesus Christ," Artie said, staring and shaking.

Many of the signatures in the thread congratulated some school in Los Angeles for winning the 2010 Cheerleading Nationals. They used animated GIFs of balloons and movie clips of people dancing and celebrating.

"How can they say this?" she demanded. "How can they do this? This isn't a joke! These are people, real people, my friends!"

The edit wars on Wikipedia had been so cold and clinical. Artie had thought that was the worst way to approach what had happened. Wrong. Seriously wrong.

For some unknown reason she kept scrolling down the page, crying as she went. That bitch Santana Lopez who'd made fun of them last year was dead in the ground. Her friend, that killer dancer, was in the list of victims, did you see? Maybe she was paralyzed. The squad had planned some _secret weapon_ this year. Good thing some kids had brought secret weapons of their own to McKinley!

A moderator stepped in and told them to tone it down. The discussion changed to wondering how long before Sue Sylvester was competing back at full strength. How many years they'd have with a shot at the title.

"These are the people who should be shot," Tina said, voice dripping bile.

"Don't say that. Don't even joke about that." He risked putting a hand on her shoulder. "Seriously, Tina. Why are you looking at this?"

"I get it," Tina whispered at the monitor. "I get why you were doing that. You have to do something. You have to try. But I started looking at what people were saying, wanting to tell them how brave other people were—"

Other people, not them, never them.

"—and at first I saw people talking about how sad it was. But I kept looking. Other places they were making fun of us. They looked at the list of names and they tracked down every single yearbook photo and they started... I don't understand why they'd do this." For all her heavy makeup and severe clothing, Tina was sweet and could be so innocent. "How could they do this?

"People are dicks when no one's paying attention to call them on what they do. Sadly, we know that from personal experience."

They should have talked more with Rachel when she tried to spend time with them. They should have told Mike and Matt that it was okay that two of them had never been targets and the two of them lucked out with the timing; they could all feel guilty together.

But even if they knew what they'd done wrong, it didn't mean it was easy to admit it.

It had been too long. Maybe they needed to start.

* * *

Kurt stared at Finn in his house, in his room, and he hated him. Three weeks together and Finn was the perfect gentleman. He looked after him, he took him to physical therapy, he asked how his day had been. He was everything Kurt had ever dreamed Finn Hudson could be, and when he said something about being his loyal support Kurt hated him even more.

"How are you doing?" Finn hesitantly asked, moving to brush his fingers across the very edge of where Kurt's back had once been bandaged. His thick head had been able to pick up on Kurt's bad mood and his attempts to help were more sporadic, but he still made them. He came crawling back like a puppy begging for attention. Even protected by the material of his shirt Finn's hand felt like it burned.

"Get away from me," Kurt snapped, voice forcing itself out of him more loudly than he'd tried for in days.

Finn stepped back, hurt and confused. "So what is the deal?"

"I don't want you in here, I don't want you touching me, I don't want you in my house!" Kurt said, refusing to look at Finn.

There were a million things Finn could have said right then. Some comforting, some hurtful, some confused and pointless. He picked the worst thing possible. "Really? 'Cause I'm pretty sure you tried to hook my mom up with your dad so this'd happen." He knew. He didn't sound furious, just _knowing_ and judgmental and... and.....

Kurt pulled away from him as far as he could manage before a wall blocked his path. "Get out."

"Kurt," Finn said, exasperated. "Look, I'm not going to lose my shit or anything. Yeah, you had me weirded out. Having a big chunk of your _back_ land all over my chest sort changed my perspective on things. I can...." His confidence faltered. "You still need help. I can help. I can do that. I can help with that."

"Why, so you can feel better about youself?" Kurt said, edging along the wall. "So you can feel better about just standing there and watching people die? I claw my way back to life and you try to grab on for credit?"

Finn flinched, tears beading. "I was scared."

"You were scared," Kurt repeated, voice dripping loathing. "Yes, you do that. You go with the flow, never stand up."

"Why are you being so mean?"

"So you'll _leave,_ " Kurt said, hand closing on something. "So you will leave me alone and get the hell out of my life."

"No," Finn said, finding his confidence. "This is me. I'm standing up. I'm support."

"Get out!" Kurt screamed at him, throwing whatever was in his hand. The glass bottle almost hit Finn, and it would have impacted hard enough to do real damage, but it edged just past him to shatter against the wall beyond. The sound of that violence echoed around his scream and his own actions felt as if they'd deafen him.

Footsteps hurried down the stairs. "What is going on down here?" asked his father, staring at the mess on the wall and then the tension between the two boys.

"I want them gone," Kurt ordered. "Now." He felt the familiar burning in his chest and fumbled his way back to his mask, hating himself and his weakness as he placed it against his face.

"Did you do something to him?"

Finn shook his head desperately. "I just tried to check his back to see if he was okay and he freaked out, I swear."

"You didn't touch the scar, you didn't hurt—"

"I swear, I didn't!"

Kurt, sucking in breaths, pointed at the stairs. Neither said anything and neither moved. They only waited for him to regain control of himself and lower the mask. "Please," he begged. "Please leave."

"I don't understand this," Dad said, taking a step forward. "You... you were the one who introduced me and Carole. Is this about thinking I'm replacing your mom? I'm not. This is new, this is different."

"I did introduce you," Kurt said, teary. "I did. And the only reason you got married and they moved in is because a bunch of people got shot. Because I got shot."

"Carole really likes you. This isn't about pity or just being worried or—"

"He is here," Kurt said, jabbing his finger toward Finn, "because of a day that ended with Mercedes _dead!_ " When he said that word he crumpled, falling toward the floor. His father followed him down. "I don't want them here. It's like I made that trade. They're here because of that day, Mercedes is dead, I don't want to trade her, I didn't mean to, I... I'm sorry...." He said it over and over again to someone who would never hear him, to someone whose funeral he'd missed, to someone whose grave he'd never even seen.

He'd made his idiotic plan. It had only worked because his best friend was dead.

He'd made a deal with the fucking devil and he didn't even know it.

"My best friend died," he sobbed, holding up the mask when he was able to pull in a rare deep breath, "she died in front of me and I don't even remember."

"That's not your fault," he heard in low, soothing tones. "It's their fault. So much bad happened on that day. This... this is something good. Something good's allowed to come from that."

"Please," Kurt said, not able to think of anything beyond his own pain. "Please just make them go away."

"You know, my best friend died in front of me, too." They both looked up at Finn. "I know I haven't said too much. Because I figured I'd cried enough. I'm not supposed to lose it. But I've gone to all the funerals and I've slept in chairs and I've watched people die and I remember _every second_. Then my mom got married and I moved out of my own house and I didn't say a word. Even though I haven't slept in weeks, I thought it'd be easier here. Because I was finally stepping up and doing the right thing. And instead you hate me, and I'm really sorry that your best friend died, but so did mine and even if you got shot and I didn't, that still _hurts._ "

Finn broke down then, too, and joined them on the floor in a loose heap of his own misery. "And he died with us still fighting," he just managed to add. "I said things. He didn't hear them."

"I'd just tried to make her feel fat," Kurt whimpered. "I'd pushed her, I hurt her... she quit. I did cheerleading and football and I'm alive, and she quit one and she died."

"I let Mr. Schue just stand there."

"I don't even remember, I've tried."

They both kept babbling their self-hatred and grief. Somehow they wound up closer, each wrapped up in one of Burt Hummel's arms, as he tried yet again to tell them that it wasn't their fault. They were the ones who'd been hurt, not the ones hurting people. They were innocent. It wasn't their fault. "You two," he said thickly, "need to lean on each other. Not fight. It's unfair you're going through this, more unfair than anything I can think of. Don't make it worse. You're family now.

"And," he soon added, "I want you both to go and talk to those people the state brought in."

Kurt flinched. The therapists. "I don't want to talk about it," he mumbled, his words echoed by Finn. What could he talk about? The hole in his memory that had made in a hole in his life?

"Noah Puckerman got something inside him that festered," he said, looking at Finn. "Something too small to see. It still... don't let the same thing happen here. You boys need to talk to someone. Carole and I, we can't keep you from blaming yourselves for things you didn't do wrong. But you've gotta find a way to stop. I'm scheduling appointments," he said. "For both of you."

* * *

Dr. Marcia Sobecki looked through her list of patients. She'd been called in from Columbus to deal with the counseling needs of anyone associated with the Lima City School District. Some of the counselors were trained in youth services; others, like her, had worked primarily with the CPD and were more familiar with recovery after violent trauma.

More than a month out, some of their patients had recovered enough to cut down their sessions. Some wanted to stop coming entirely, and although they all recommended against it there was very little to do. There was no helping someone who refused to take steps toward recovery.

A sizeable group had filtered into their system over the past week, though, all seeking their own first step. Victims of violence, both faculty and students. Witnesses. Serious injuries, minor, or none at all. It had been luck of the draw that Marcia's caseload had dropped so dramatically, and so she'd been handed the stack to schedule over the days to come.

William, Tina, Matthew, Kurt, Brittany, Rachel, Arthur, Finn, Michael, Quinn, Emma. The last was a counselor at McKinley, Marcia read. She was glad to see that. She'd probably been leaned on for support by others and hadn't said one word about her own anxiety. The physician still needed to heal thyself. Some of the patients were still injured and tired easily while some had no physical injuries. But they all were injured inside, just as surely as a girl who cringed with pain when she moved or a boy who couldn't breathe right.

A knock sounded on the door. The receptionist poked in her head. "I have your eight-thirty, if you're ready."

One of those new patients. Marcia checked her outfit for any bits of lint and then nodded. "Yes, thanks," she answered.

She stood when the new figure walked in, clearly uncomfortable and perhaps even a little scared of the conversations they would have. "I'm Dr. Sobecki," she said, "or you can call me Marcia. Whichever you'd prefer." She sat back down and gestured to the chair, trying to make things comfortable, calm, and safe. "Now that I've introduced myself," she added, smiling, "why don't you tell me your name?"


End file.
